


Dropping Hints

by Veul_McLannon



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Beginnings, M/M, a further attempt at being clever probably backfires dramatically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 13:42:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15292776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veul_McLannon/pseuds/Veul_McLannon
Summary: Drumknott begins dropping Vetinari hints about his... leanings. Vetinari, predictably, catches on very fast, but is enjoying the show rather too much to comment. For a while, at least.





	Dropping Hints

**Author's Note:**

> For recognisability, I used Roundworld gay symbolism, largely from the 1800s. (Also!! Managed the 200/100/200 wordcount again! This is great fun.)
> 
> Further note: entender le latin / entiender / understands Latin: a method of determining whether the person you are speaking to is in fact gay; someone who is not will not in the circumstances understand the question (used largely it appears in the 18th and 19th centuries)
> 
> As usual, nothing is mine except homosexual intent.

Drumknott adjusted the new lavender necktie self-consciously before pushing open the Oblong Office door with the morning tray. That Vetinari shouldn’t notice at all was out of the question, but he rather hoped he would notice for the right reasons.

They exchanged their usual greetings, their usual comments on the weather (wet and Watch-friendly as was the norm in Sektober), before the Patrician, as always, turned to the tray in front of him and began sifting through the most important correspondence.

Drumknott felt subtle disappointment ebb through his veins, foolish though it was; of course the Patrician had better things to notice than the colour of his secretary’s tie.

He turned to his own desk on the other side of the office, but stilled briefly when Vetinari spoke. “A novel choice of accessory today, Drumknott.”

It wasn’t much, but it was _something_. He smiled softly to himself. “Thank you, my lord.”

“... Brings out your eyes,” said the Patrician _sotto voce_ behind him as he continued to his desk. In any other man, he would have thought he had not been intended to hear, but this was _Havelock Vetinari_.

Rufus Drumknott walked on clouds for the rest of the day.

***

“Drumknott, there is a... flower on this tray.” Vetinari picked up the aforementioned object, resplendent in all its green glory.

“Is there, sir?” Drumknott asked, far too innocently. “The maids must have thought you would appreciate the colour. Carnations are quite popular these days.”

“Are they, indeed. Well, I admire their taste.” Vetinari examined the object, turning it slowly in his elegant hands as though he had never seen a flower before in his life.

Drumknott got quite a shock when he looked up at him suddenly and raised an eyebrow which _could,_ in the right circumstances, be a smile.

***

The next morning when Drumknott brought the tray in as usual, he found there was an addition to Vetinari’s usual desk layout. His “Good morning, sir,” was thus a little strangled.

There, nestled between the inkwell and the quill-stand, was a tiny cut-glass vase. It contained a couple of inches of water, and the carnation from yesterday. Drumknott found himself hard pressed to keep his eyes off it.

“Are you unwell, Drumknott? You sound a little hoarse.” The very picture of a perfect employer (and certainly not a picture-perfect employer. No. That would be inappropriate and absolutely not something which Drumknott had thought to himself on multiple occasions).

“No, thank you, sir. I just-” he coughed in an almost embarrassingly transparent manner and trusted to Vetinari’s (admittedly dubious, if upper-class) upbringing not to ask further questions, “- had a frog in my throat.”

“Dear me, that does sound dangerous.” Vetinari was so deadpan that Drumknott could barely tell if he was in jest. He slid that day’s tray onto the desk in front of the Patrician.

When he oiled over later on that morning to hand over documents for signing, he found that the second carnation had joined the first.

***

It was Octeday; a full week since the first incident, and Drumknott found that after the initial furore (such as it was in his mind’s eye) there was little else which might be achieved in such a manner. Vetinari knew, no doubt; such an intelligent man was bound to be educated on a variety of subcultures, even if he himself did not ascribe to them.

And that was the issue, Drumknott thought wistfully as he checked today’s (red) necktie in the mirror by the Oblong Office entrance (handily placed so visitors could ensure that they weren’t visibly sweating in fear). As Vetinari now _knew_ , the entirety of the situation was taken out of his, Drumknott’s hands. Far from this being a relief, he felt more in the dark than ever. Was His Lordship planning Drumknott’s early retirement even as he pushed open the door? Was he offended? Was he – heaven forbid – amused? These were the thoughts roiling busily through Drumknott’s mind as he placed the tray down upon the desk and began the daily motions, which now included a comment on the tie or flower of the day.

By the time seven came around, he had almost forgotten his crusade of revelation. He stood, planning to join the rest of the staff for dinner before returning, as was his wont, to tidy up any remaining work (a task which admittedly took several hours rather than several minutes as it would at first appear), when Vetinari’s voice stopped him.

“Drumknott, I believe we have an appointment.” He turned around to query this (he knew there were no appointments, he had booked them himself) and found the Patrician indicating the door into the small parlour where he himself would often take meals, in preference to the formal dining room on the floor below. He swept in, clearly expecting his secretary to do likewise. And when had Drumknott done anything but follow his master’s lead?

The place was, somewhat atypically for somewhere frequented by the Patrician, warm and decidedly plush, with dark wooden walls and deep red furnishings – which no doubt came in useful when previous holders of the Patricianship conducted meetings during which bribery, blackmail and occasional bashing of the rich and/or influential had occurred in, dare it be said, buckets.

Vetinari had seated himself at the table and indicated that Drumknott should follow suit. Drumknott’s heart immediately leapt into his throat at the prospect of dining, alone, with the Patrician. He couldn’t help but notice that there was a single candle on the long red runner. He also failed to ignore the fact that the small cut-glass vase had somehow migrated onto the sideboard, where the carnations stared at him accusingly.

This was, however, nothing to the manner in which Vetinari was staring; examining him like a particularly intriguing crossword puzzle. He continued this task for some minutes, before blithely saying, “Forgive me,” and sitting back in his chair. Drumknott was, to put it lightly, nonplussed.

Not long later, food was brought in, noticeably nothing extravagant; it seemed that the Patrician ate what everyone downstairs did. Drumknott felt almost ashamed for leaving him to dinner every night on his own, but then when he, Drumknott, dined downstairs, he did acquire an improved feeling for the atmosphere among the staff. If he weren’t about to be fired, he hoped some kind of arrangement could perhaps be come to.

Throughout the meal, they exchanged nothing more than a single smile; gracious on the part of the Patrician, and tinged with confusion on the part of his clerk. The latter focussed mentally on the unnecessary candle; _surely_ this wasn’t a prelude to an ignominious end. Drumknott was chasing the last of his peas when Vetinari finally spoke.

“You realise, as an employer, you put me in a difficult position, Drumknott.” It was phrased as a statement, and the other looked up, aghast – he strove only to serve his lordship to the best of his ability, and certainly if it were required this past week could be swept under the proverbial carpet! He said so, his voice breaking a little with the depth of his feeling on the matter. Never mind clerkly composure now, it was vital that his lordship see the earnestness in Drumknott’s words.

Vetinari smiled minutely, and took another sip from his glass, his eyes almost amused behind his hand.

“You would be content, Drumknott, to pretend this week never happened?” He raised an elegant eyebrow. As Drumknott opened his mouth to reply, he continued: “And I would prefer your actual feelings on the matter, please, not the words you would like me to hear.”

Drumknott paused with his mouth half-open (for which he berated himself soundly once he had replayed the entire evening, considerably later) and rearranged the words. “I would be _content_ , my lord, to pretend such, if that were what you wished; regrettably I could not say that I would be _happy_.” A tiny, forlorn smile flashed across his face before he buried it ferociously under composure acquired over years. He fought the urge to avert his eyes from the freezing bright gaze across the table, and was rewarded with another smile, slightly more evident this time.

“And why would that be, Drumknott?”

He swallowed. The whole point of this exercise was so that he didn’t have to _say_ anything; Vetinari, as usual, wasn’t playing by the rules.

“In truth, my lord, I am not sure... only I wanted...” He found himself unable to say the words, and trailed off, before starting again with a little more direction to his sentence.  “I find myself wondering now what I could possibly have hoped to accomplish. I have remained silent for five years, and thus have had five years in which to contemplate any future actions of this nature, but regrettably now I am... at a loss. I am sure you know, at any rate, what my goal was; though I would not hope you might understand-”

“I understand many things, Drumknott,” said Vetinari calmly to his glass, the stem of which he was twisting in spindle-thin fingers, “Not least of all Latatian.” His eyes flicked up to Drumknott suddenly, effectively pinning him with his gaze, like a butterfly being prepared for a display cabinet.

Drumknott for his part had stifled a gasp, and was now sat with wide blue eyes, knocked back in his chair as though he had been thrown there. He thanked any and every god he could remember (at this juncture in time, not a great many) that Vetinari did not count among his considerable and varied talents the ability to hear human hearts. It would have been exceedingly embarrassing.

“My lord...” his voice was just above a whisper, as though if he spoke any louder he might snuff out the delicate spiderweb moment stretching before him, “Do you... mean that?” He was fully aware that Vetinari certainly understood the language in the classical sense and therefore could quite easily play along if he wished to, allowing them both to speak at cross purposes. However, he trusted that the man he served, and who gave so much for a city which all but openly despised him, was not that cruel.

“I never say anything which I do not mean, Rufus.” Vetinari stood lithely, quelling his secretary’s attempt to do likewise out of deference with a curt wave of his hand. The use of his given name had not failed to impress upon Drumknott, and Vetinari’s slow approach, like a stalking panther in the depths of an Agatean jungle, was reducing his mental capacity to something approaching that of a limpet. He recognised that he was jabbering inwardly, and refocused on the man – much, much closer now – in front of him.

“What is it that you want, Rufus?” He had him penned in now, with one long, elegant hand resting almost nonchalantly on the table and the other upon Drumknott’s chair arm.

Drumknott swallowed, casting about for something which might help him in his plight. There was no such imminent reprieve. Confronted with the prospect of Havelock, Lord Vetinari less than two feet from him, and confronted with the choice between looking at the man and continuing to deprive himself of that visual cornucopia, he slowly turned his eyes upwards, feeling as though they were magnetised.

He rallied somewhat with the desperate thought spiking through his thoroughly dissembled mind that Vetinari would not let this go so far if he were not himself interested in the outcome; he had, after all, far more important matters with which to concern himself, and moreover was not prone to idle amusements.

“My lord, I... find myself compelled to inform you that I have a certain-” he swallowed again and winced a little, unaccustomed to expressing emotions in so many words (and was that a smirk on Vetinari’s face?) “- regard for you. Of a... fond nature. Though I believe you have surmised this previously.” Still blue eyes contemplated him calmly.

Then the Patrician smiled, only a small smile, though Drumknott found himself almost grateful for it; he would have been unnerved had it been any more effusive.

“Yes,” answered Vetinari. “I had... surmised it, Rufus. Nevertheless,” he slid one hand from the arm of the chair and gathered up one of Drumknott’s without breaking eye contact, “It is infinitely preferable to hear such things from the other person concerned, rather than from their... fashion choices.” His eyes glittered, and he pressed lips softly and precisely to Drumknott’s knuckles, maintaining that still gaze all the time. Drumknott’s breath caught involuntarily in his throat, and if he hadn’t been sitting down, he certainly would have needed to; kissing a man’s hand should _not_ be so exciting.

He managed to unfurl his captive hand enough to run his thumb lightly over the Patrician’s lips and rest it over one chiselled cheekbone, marvelling silently at the opportunity. The freezing blue gaze flickered for the briefest of seconds, allowing for his latent feudal senses to propel him to his feet,* where he stood chest-to-chest, and very nearly nose-to-nose, with Vetinari, wrapping his arm further round his neck and running hands through the strands of dark hair which had escaped during the course of the day.

“My lord...” he managed to whisper, barely a finger’s breadth from his lips and unable to prevent his eyes from drifting downwards.

“Rufus,” Vetinari stated, dry amusement clear in his voice. As he opened his mouth to speak further, however, Drumknott lost his battle with his muscles, which had been doing a damned fine job of preventing him from gravitating towards Vetinari, and swayed the extra half inch towards him.

The Patrician, predictably, took this in his stride (despite the unconscionable interruption) and leaned into the kiss with his customary natural skill, wrapping strong arms around Drumknott like a particularly tenacious octopus and pressing him to a long expanse of toned black Assassin. Drumknott found himself suddenly lightheaded at the thought, and clung on for dear life, intent on making the most of the moment before Vetinari inevitably drew awa-

“Let us dispense with the formalities, Rufus,” he uttered as he broke the kiss briefly to lift the other easily and perch him on the table edge, one hand on the table and the other at his back, pulling him closer, “I would rather be involved with Rufus Drumknott than with a servant, after all.”

Drumknott practically whined, both at the loss of contact and at the insinuation that Vetinari wanted to be _involved_ , and pulled him back into the abandoned kiss, leaning back on his other hand to accommodate the insistent pressure which was Vetinari when he wanted something.

At the end of the day, he just really hadn’t expected to be the Something, neckties and flowers aside.

Further thoughts were rather enjoyably curtailed for the imminent future – Vetinari had discovered the joys inherent in vegan vampirism** and thus Drumknott’s mind was understandably elsewhere. He heard someone panting for breath rather desperately, and it was only when Vetinari returned his attentions to his lips that he realised it had been he himself.

Why was the man so damnably good at everything he did?

With unerring accuracy, as though he had indeed heard his secretary’s blasphemous thoughts, Vetinari withdrew a little, leaving Drumknott gasping, one hand perilously close to the sugar bowl. He pulled him up to something better approximating a sitting, rather than draped, position, his hand burning through Drumknott’s waistcoat.

There was a pause as Drumknott gathered his thoughts enough to pay the requisite attention to the man in front of him (that is, to something other than his lips).

“What is it that you want, Rufus?” Vetinari repeated, just as softly as before, although, Drumknott noted with considerable satisfaction, rather more breathily. Certainly, the man was human and therefore prone to breathlessness in such situations, but Drumknott treasured every instance in which he was allowed to see this fact (not least because he was, without a doubt, one of the very few afforded such a privilege).

He thought back rapidly over the last ten minutes (gods had it only been ten minutes), and tried to identify the words with which to convey his feelings. He balked at declarations of love, finding them not only ill-suited to the Patrician, but ultimately a better fit for persons in romantic novels than those living in real life. The key question concerned Vetinari’s own feelings – was he simply seeking a casual arrangement with someone who had proven loyalty to a practically ardent degree, or something else? Playing back the conversation, he grasped hold of that most weighty word “involved” and chose the next best thing to outright declaration, effectively allowing the Patrician to decide, but equally making his own feelings clear. Secretarial training had its uses even outside the office, it appeared.

“Whatever you can give me, Havelock,” he replied eventually, forcing himself to look the other in the eyes.

Vetinari smiled then, and stepped away, allowing him to sit up properly. “A truly diplomatic answer, Rufus.”

“But the truth.” He had to at least insist upon that.

“And if I were to inform you that this was a mistake?”

“I might be inclined to disbelieve you, s- Havelock.” He threw in a raised eyebrow and hoped that sheer cheek wasn’t enough to warrant firing a man whom you had just been kissing senseless over a dining table.

From the look on Vetinari’s face though, quite the opposite was true; on any other man the grin*** could have been used to signal with, it was so bright (Drumknott, being well-versed in Vetinarian expressions, knew this for certain).

“Hm.” He continued to smile at Drumknott enigmatically, the silence stretching on into nothing.

Eventually, he seemed to come to a conclusion and moved again, swooping closer like an especially covetous flamingo, pinning Drumknott again to the table with a hand to either side of him.

“And in return?” His eyes burned through Drumknott’s own, yet he found himself unable to look away. It was several seconds before he found enough of a voice to respond, and no matter how he tried to phrase it, “sentimental” figured in the description.

“You already have everything I can give.” His voice was nearly a whisper.

Vetinari’s eyes darkened as he looked down at him. “Not quite everything, I think.”

“That can be arranged, however,” he replied before his courage deserted him in the face of the glittering visual onslaught.

Vetinari barked out a laugh suddenly, stepping back a little and thankfully allowing Rufus to breathe unhindered by such things as minor heart attacks.

Eight o’clock could just be heard from outside. “It appears that we still have some hours left of the day, for better or for worse.” Vetinari ran a hand lightly across Drumknott’s jaw, leaning just close enough to kiss and murmuring, “I shall see you this evening, Rufus.”

Before Drumknott had the chance to claim his prize, to wit, One Pair of Patricians’ Lips: Hardly Used, Vetinari swept away towards the door, leaving him still perched, now somewhat distraught, on the table.

He paused in the frame of the door, highlighted in the light seeping through the far window. “Come along, Drumknott. The city waits for no man.”

Dramatic bastard.

 

 

 

* Being seated when the Patrician was not surely constituted some great breach of universal rules.

** Drumknott thanked all the gods yet again that evening for affording him the luxury of not having to go to work tomorrow with a scarf hiding the inevitable marks.

*** Constituting both side of his mouth curling simultaneously and a very distinct glitter in his eye.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading :) Please feel free to comment!! I'll love you if you do!!! (that's not an incentive who am I kidding) (but also for real please comment if u liked it lmao i beg of u im dying squirtle #veulgetsdesperate2k18)


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